On July 4, 2026, the United States turns 250. Many of us aren’t thinking about it—some may not even realize it’s coming. But for nearly a decade, a bipartisan commission chartered by Congress has been planning a sprawling national commemoration. Major brands like Coca-Cola, Amazon and Walmart have signed on as sponsors. States and major cities are building calendars packed with parades, exhibitions, fireworks and made-for-TV spectacles.

Most of that pipeline is broadly apolitical—at least in intent. But less than two weeks into his administration, President Donald Trump created a White House “Task Force 250” by executive order—an effort to shape the celebration around “approved” versions of history and bring a more muscular tone to it all. Now working under the “Freedom 250” monicker, the plans include include everything from a prayer session on the National Mall to UFC fights on the White House Lawn.

As the anniversary approaches, the looming question becomes “Who gets to tell America’s story?” Does the narrative calcify into something corporatized, sanitized and politically policed? Or will there be room for a bigger story—one that can hold pride and critique in the same breath?

That answer won’t come from a commission or a board room. It will come from culture. And culture, in America, has always been shaped by artists—especially musicians.

I’ve seen this play out again and again over the last few decades. When I helped start the music-oriented voter registration organization HeadCount in 2004, my guiding belief wasn’t primarily about politics—it was about belonging. A concert is one of the few remaining places where thousands of strangers still gather in real life for a shared experience. Differences temporarily melt away and there’s a palpable sense of collective power.

After leaving HeadCount, I joined a project that asked nearly 5,000 Americans how they feel about being American. Working with researchers at the nonprofit Think Big Alliance, we weren’t testing slogans—we were listening for the deeper story people are hungry for.

We heard the same tension again and again. People are exhausted by hyper-partisanship and turned off by hollow flag-waving. They bristle at blind patriotism, but they also want permission to celebrate what they genuinely value about this country. About seven in ten told us they’re proud to be American, and a similar share said it’s important to talk honestly about America’s failures and its successes.

The defining feature of American identity, the research suggests, is the idea that ordinary people have the power—and responsibility—to move this country closer to its promise. It’s the “US” in U.S. It’s we the people—all the people.

That’s why America’s 250th presents both a challenge and opportunity. Many will reflexively dismiss the 250th as a government-produced, sponsor-driven holiday—especially at a moment when millions question whether the country truly lives up to the values it proclaims. But the alternative—ceding the anniversary to the loudest ideologues and the most entrenched corporations—is worse.

Musicians have the unique ability to make this moment emotionally true. Use stages, songs, visuals, set design, collaborations, merch, documentaries, local storytelling and social media to widen the frame of what America 250 can mean. Treat the anniversary not as propaganda, but as material: complicated, unfinished, worth wrestling with.

Artists have always taken the iconography of America and made it more honest and more human. You can hear it in Jimi Hendrix bending “The Star-Spangled Banner” into raw electricity. You can feel it in the ache inside Bruce Springsteen’s “Born in the U.S.A.”—misread, reclaimed, reinterpreted for decades. You can see it in Kendrick Lamar at the Super Bowl halftime show, or Beyoncé’s Cowboy Carter, using the flag not as a symbol of jingoistic nationalism, but as one of resistance and reclamation.

Anniversaries are mirrors. The 250th will reflect who we are in 2026, and where we’re going. If artists step in, the story can pivot back to the people: not presidents and sponsors, but the people in the cheap seats and the GA pit.

To me, that’s the purest kind of patriotism: a loud, messy, beautifully diverse chorus insisting that this country is ours—and that the next verse is still unwritten.

Andy Bernstein is the founder and former executive director of HeadCount. He now consults with various nonprofit organizations and serves as board president of Divided Sky Foundation, founded by Trey Anastasio.

Photo courtesy Carrie Davis Consulting